


Pottage in the cottage

by RafaelaFranzen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cooking, Humor, M/M, centuries old inside jokes, in which a demon is terribly bad at being bad, ineffable husbands, stone soup, subverting parables who me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RafaelaFranzen/pseuds/RafaelaFranzen
Summary: It went against Crowley’s nature, but he had begun to accept that doing nice things had their benefits. Making dinner together with his angel was one of those things. Tonight, they were making soup.He wasn't an expert on food, but he was pretty damned sure soup shouldn't clatter when it's poured into bowls.(Yet another extremely silly and random edition of “things Crowley are responsible for you never expected”)





	Pottage in the cottage

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @Drawlight, for convincing me this silly little headcanon dumped into your Discord IMs was worth writing to post!

It went against Crowley’s nature, but he had begun to accept that doing nice things had their benefits.

Making things with your own hands, he decided, was nice. Especially things you could make together in a warm kitchen in a cottage with a certain angel and share the fruits of afterwards. Not that he was keen on the eating bit that followed, but the expression that lit up Aziraphale’s face after a satisfying meal they’d not-miracled into existence was worth the effort every time.

That evening Aziraphale had decided on making a simple vegetable soup for dinner, much to his surprise. Said it reminded him of some excellent pottage he had in the 17th Century. If Crowley was honest, he hadn’t quite been listening to the finer details. Didn’t matter either way. S’long as his angel desired it, he was happy to oblige. Dutifully, he’d cut up the vegetables passed his way (playing with sharp things was something he definitely enjoyed), leaving the angel to drop them in the boiling pot of water on the stove.

The soup had been bubbling for nearly an hour now, filling the kitchen with what he had to admit was a most excellent smell. They’d been most of the way through a second bottle of red before Aziraphale had given the liquid in the pot a final stir and declared it ready to serve, shooing him out into the dining room.

Two empty bowls and silver tableware had already been set out. He barely had the time to top up their wine glasses and ease into his seat before Aziraphale brought out a lidded tureen of soup, all smiles (he’d never tire of those. He’d make another hundred dinners to see that smile again).

The only thing that interrupted his preoccupation with gazing at Aziraphale was the loud clatter of soup being ladled into his bowl.

He’d be the first to admit he wasn’t an expert about food. But he was pretty damned sure soup didn’t _clatter_ when it was poured.

In his bowl, sitting among the chunks of potato and carrots, were several pebbles.

Crowley groaned.

“Really, Angel? It’s been centuries.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shone with barely-restrained mirth.

“My dear, you were the one who started it.”

* * *

Ideas came from the damnest of places. Crowley was a demon, after all. He specialized in that sort of thing.

Convince hungry villagers that stones were delicious and highly nutritious. Perfectly good for making soup with. Just add a bit of garnish and you’re ready for a feast. That’ll do for a bit of a demonic lark.

He didn’t expect them to actually put things in his pot of boiling water _with a fucking stone in_ and then demand a share because _they contributed_. It all started with a bit of salt from the butcher. Then came a girl with shriveled turnips. And the brewman’s wife with the leftover barley. And the mayor with wonky carrots. And the miller’s son with his slightly squashed onion. It didn’t take long before Crowley found himself stood uncomfortably by a pot overflowing with all manner of ingredients with half the village around the bubbling brew that had started as a joke, for hell’s sake.

And then a very familiar voice had chimed in, asking what smelt so good, and there was Aziraphale, bowl and spoon already in hand. 

Crowley had never, in his wildest imagination, considered how making soup could leave him in a compromising position. 

“They did it all themselves!” he’d blurted.

“Ah, you’re being far too modest, dear traveler”, said the mayor. “It was you who who introduced us to a taste of something new, added a bit of novelty to our dreary old pottage!”

Crowley had gritted his teeth to keep from swearing. Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled as he helped himself to a bowl.

Somewhere in the English countryside, they say there are still folk who start up a pot of soup with stones in it.


End file.
